Cinderella, or, the Little Glass Slipper, A Tale

THERE was once an honest gentleman
who took for his second wife a
lady, the proudest and most disagreeable
in the whole country. She had
two daughters exactly like herself in
all things. He also had one little girl,
who resembled her dead mother, the
best woman in all the world. Scarcely
had the second marriage taken place
than the stepmother became jealous
of the good qualities of the little girl,
who was so great a contrast to her own
two daughters. She gave her all the
menial occupations of the house:
compelled her to wash the floors and staircases,
to dust the bedrooms, and clean
the grates; and while her sisters occupied
carpeted chambers hung with
mirrors, where they could see themselves
from head to foot, this poor little
damsel was sent to sleep in an attic,
on an old straw mattress, with only one
chair and not a looking-glass in the
room.

She suffered all in silence, not daring
to complain to her father, who was entirely
ruled by his new wife. When
her daily work was done she used to
sit down in the chimney-corner among
the ashes, from which the two sisters
gave her the nickname of “Cinderella.”
But Cinderella, however shabbily clad,
was handsomer than they were with all
their fine clothes.

It happened that the king’s son gave
a series of balls, to which were invited
all the rank and fashion of the city, and
among the rest the two elder sisters.
They were very proud and happy, and
occupied their whole time in deciding
what they should wear, a source of new
trouble to Cinderella, whose duty it was
to get up their fine linen and laces, and
who never could please them however
much she tried. They talked of nothing
but their clothes.

“I,” said the elder, “shall wear my
velvet gown and my trimmings of English
lace.”

“And I,” added the younger, “will
have but my ordinary silk petticoat,
but I shall adorn it with an upper skirt
of flowered brocade, and shall put on
my diamond tiara, which is a great deal
finer than anything of yours.”

Here the elder sister grew angry, and
dispute began to run so high that Cinderella,
who was known to have excellent
taste, was called upon to decide
between them. She gave them the best
advice she could, and gently and submissively
offered to dress them herself,
and especially to arrange their hair,
an accomplishment in which she excelled
many a noted coiffeur. The important
evening came, and she exercised
all her skill to adorn the two young
ladies. While she was combing out the
elder’s hair, this ill-natured girl said,
sharply, “Cinderella, do you not wish
you were going to the ball?”

“Ah, madam” (they obliged her always
to say madam), “you are only
mocking me; it is not my fortune to
have any such pleasure.”

“You are right; people would only
laugh to see a little cinder-wench at a
ball.”

Any other than Cinderella would have
dressed the hair all awry, but she was
good, and dressed it perfectly even and
smooth, and as prettily as she could.

The sisters had scarcely eaten for two
days, and had broken a dozen stay-laces
a day, in trying to make themselves
slender; but to-night they broke a dozen
more, and lost their tempers over and
over again before they had completed
their toilet. When at last the happy
moment arrived, Cinderella followed
them to the coach; after it had whirled
them away, she sat down by the kitchen
fire and cried.

Immediately her godmother, who was
a fairy, appeared beside her. “What
are you crying for, my little maid?”

“Oh, I wish—I wish—” Her sobs
stopped her.

“You wish to go to the ball; isn’t it
so?”

Cinderella nodded.

“Well, then, be a good girl and you
shall go. First run into the garden and
fetch me the largest pumpkin you can
find.”

Cinderella did not comprehend what
this had to do with her going to the
ball, but, being obedient and obliging,
she went. Her godmother took the
pumpkin, and, having scooped out all
its inside, struck it with her wand; it
became a splendid gilt coach lined with
rose-colored satin.

“Now fetch me the mouse-trap out
of the pantry, my dear.”

Cinderella brought it; it contained
six of the fattest, sleekest mice. The
fairy lifted up the wire door, and as
each mouse ran out she struck it and
changed it into a beautiful black
horse.

“But what shall I do for your coachman,
Cinderella?”

Cinderella suggested that she had
seen a large black rat in the rat-trap,
and he might do for want of better.

“You are right; go and look again
for him.”

He was found, and the fairy made him
into a most respectable coachman, with
the finest whiskers imaginable. She afterwards
took six lizards from behind
the pumpkin frame and changed them
into six footmen, all in splendid livery,
who immediately jumped up behind the
carriage, as if they had been footmen
all their days. “Well, Cinderella, now
you can go to the ball.”

“What, in these clothes?” said Cinderella
piteously, looking down on her
ragged frock.

Her godmother laughed, and touched
her also with the wand, at which her
wretched, threadbare jacket became stiff
with gold and sparkling with jewels;
her woollen petticoat lengthened into
a gown of sweeping satin, from underneath
which peeped out her little feet,
no longer bare, but covered with silk
stockings and the prettiest glass slippers
in the world. “Now, Cinderella,
depart; but remember, if you stay one
instant after midnight, your carriage
will become a pumpkin, your coachman
a rat, your horses mice, and your footmen
lizards; while you yourself will be
the little cinder-wench you were an
hour ago.”

Cinderella promised without fear, her
heart was so full of joy.

Arrived at the palace, the king’s son,
whom some one, probably the fairy,
had told to await the coming of an uninvited
princess whom nobody knew,
was standing at the entrance ready to
receive her. He offered her his hand,
and led her with the utmost courtesy
through the assembled guests, who
stood aside to let her pass, whispering
to one another, “Oh, how beautiful she
is!” It might have turned the head of
any one but poor Cinderella, who was
so used to be despised that she took it
all as if it were something happening
in a dream.

Her triumph was complete; even the
old king said to the queen, that never
since her majesty’s young days had he
seen so charming and elegant a person.
All the court ladies scanned her eagerly,
clothes and all, determining to have
theirs made next day of exactly the
same pattern. The king’s son himself
led her out to dance, and she danced so
gracefully that he admired her more and
more. Indeed, at supper, which was
fortunately early, his admiration quite
took away his appetite. For Cinderella
herself, with an involuntary shyness
she sought out her sisters, placed herself
beside them, and offered them all
sorts of civil attentions, which, coming
as they supposed from a stranger, and
so magnificent a lady, almost overwhelmed
them with delight.

While she was talking with them she
heard the clock strike a quarter to
twelve, and making a courteous adieu
to the royal family, she re-entered her
carriage, escorted tenderly by the king’s
son, and arrived in safety at her own
door. There she found her godmother,
who smiled approval, and of whom she
begged permission to go to a second
ball, the following night, to which the
queen had earnestly invited her.

While she was talking the two sisters
were heard knocking at the gate, and
the fairy godmother vanished, leaving
Cinderella sitting in the chimney-corner,
rubbing her eyes and pretending to
be very sleepy.

“Ah,” cried the eldest sister, maliciously,
“it has been the most delightful
ball, and there was present the most
beautiful princess I ever saw, who was
so exceedingly polite to us both.”

“Was she?” said Cinderella, indifferently;
“and who might she be?”

“Nobody knows, though everybody
would give their eyes to know, especially
the king’s son.”

“Indeed!” replied Cinderella, a little
more interested. “I should like to see
her. Miss Javotte”—that was the elder
sister’s name—“will you not let me go
to-morrow, and lend me your yellow
gown that you wear on Sundays?”

“What, lend my yellow gown to a
cinder-wench! I am not so mad as
that.” At which refusal Cinderella did
not complain, for if her sister really had
lent her the gown she would have been
considerably embarrassed.

The next night came, and the two
young ladies, richly dressed in different
toilets, went to the ball. Cinderella,
more splendidly attired and beautiful
than ever, followed them shortly after.
“Now remember twelve o’clock,” was
her godmother’s parting speech, and she
thought she certainly should. But the
prince’s attentions to her were greater
even than the first evening, and, in the
delight of listening to his pleasant conversation,
time slipped by unperceived.
While she was sitting beside him in a
lovely alcove, and looking at the moon
from under a bower of orange blossoms,
she heard a clock strike the first stroke
of twelve. She started up, and fled
away as lightly as a deer.

Amazed, the prince followed, but
could not catch her. Indeed, he missed
his lovely princess altogether, and only
saw running out of the palace doors a
little dirty lass whom he had never beheld
before, and of whom he certainly
would never have taken the least notice.
Cinderella arrived at home breathless
and weary, ragged and cold, without
carriage or footmen or coachman, the
only remnant of her past magnificence
being one of her little glass slippers—the
other she had dropped in the ballroom
as she ran away.

When the two sisters returned they
were full of this strange adventure: how
the beautiful lady had appeared at the
ball more beautiful than ever, and enchanted
every one who looked at her;
and how as the clock was striking twelve
she had suddenly risen up and fled
through the ballroom, disappearing no
one knew how or where, and dropping
one of her glass slippers behind her in
her flight. How the king’s son had remained
inconsolable until he chanced
to pick up the little glass slipper, which
he carried away in his pocket, and was
seen to take it out continually, and
look at it affectionately, with the air of
a man very much in love; in fact, from
his behavior during the remainder of
the evening, all the court and royal
family were convinced that he had
become desperately enamoured of the
wearer of the little glass slipper.

Cinderella listened in silence, turning
her face to the kitchen fire, and perhaps
it was that which made her look so
rosy, but nobody ever noticed or admired
her at home, so it did not signify,
and next morning she went to her
weary work again just as before.

A few days after, the whole city was
attracted by the sight of a herald going
round with a little glass slipper in his
hand, publishing, with a flourish of
trumpets, that the king’s son ordered
this to be fitted on the foot of every
lady in the kingdom, and that he wished
to marry the lady whom it fitted best,
or to whom it and the fellow-slipper belonged.
Princesses, duchesses, countesses,
and simple gentlewomen all tried
it on, but, being a fairy slipper, it fitted
nobody; and, besides, nobody could produce
its fellow-slipper, which lay all the
time safely in the pocket of Cinderella’s
old linsey gown.

At last the herald came to the house
of the two sisters, and though they well
knew neither of themselves was the
beautiful lady, they made every attempt
to get their clumsy feet into the
glass slipper, but in vain.

“Let me try it on,” said Cinderella,
from the chimney-corner.

“What, you?” cried the others, bursting
into shouts of laughter; but Cinderella
only smiled and held out her
hand.

Her sisters could not prevent her,
since the command was that every
young maiden in the city should try on
the slipper, in order that no chance
might be left untried, for the prince
was nearly breaking his heart; and his
father and mother were afraid that,
though a prince, he would actually die
for love of the beautiful unknown lady.

So the herald bade Cinderella sit
down on a three-legged stool in the
kitchen, and himself put the slipper on
her pretty little foot, which it fitted
exactly. She then drew from her pocket
the fellow-slipper, which she also put
on, and stood up—for with the touch
of the magic shoes all her dress was
changed likewise—no longer the poor,
despised cinder-wench, but the beautiful
lady whom the king’s son loved.

Her sisters recognized her at once.
Filled with astonishment, mingled with
no little alarm, they threw themselves
at her feet, begging her pardon for all
their former unkindness. She raised
and embraced them, told them she forgave
them with all her heart, and only
hoped they would love her always.
Then she departed with the herald to
the king’s palace, and told her whole
story to his majesty and the royal
family, who were not in the least surprised,
for everybody believed in fairies,
and everybody longed to have a fairy
godmother.

The slipper fitted exactly

For the young prince, he found her
more lovely and lovable than ever, and
insisted upon marrying her immediately.
Cinderella never went home again,
but she sent for her two sisters to the
palace, and with the consent of all
parties married them shortly after to
two rich gentlemen of the court.